A Quality of Light (20 page)

We were sitting in the cafeteria with Ralphie, Lenny and some Walkerton kids Monday morning when Mary Ellen Reid and a
group of her friends approached our table. Mary Ellen was a Walkerton girl whose father ran the local Credit Union and was the publisher of the
Walkerton Times.
The Reids were one of the richest families in the whole of Bruce County, solid church members and staunch supporters of any community initiative. Mary Ellen was easily one of the prettiest girls in school. She was quick to laugh, intelligent, lithe and popular. Johnny had even expressed an interest in her during our first week when we discovered we all shared the same biology class. As they approached our table we all fell shyly silent.

“Hi, Joshua,” Mary Ellen said cheerily, as we all stared.

“Hi, Mary Ellen,” I replied, gulping as Johnny elbowed me solidly in the ribs.

She plopped down in the chair across from me. “Are you coming to the dance on Friday?”

“Well … uh … yeah. I thought I’d go,” I said.

“Good. I was wondering about something.” She looked down at her feet.

“What’s that?” I asked, fascinated to have her undivided attention.

“Well … I was wondering if you’re taking anyone.”

“Uh, no. Well, me and Johnny are going.”

She laughed. “Not like that, silly. I mean, do you have a date?”

“A
date?
No,” I said, more surprised than ever.

“Well … me neither,” she said coyly.

“Are you asking if I would take you?” I asked, looking down the table at the amazed looks on the faces of my friends.

“If you asked me I’d go with you.”

“Well … uh … okay.”

“Okay. Can you pick me up at seven-thirty?”

“Yeah. Sure. Okay. Seven-thirty. Sure.”

“Great. I’m really looking forward to it, Joshua,” she said, touching my hand slightly as she rose and departed with her friends.

The silence at our table was deafening.

“I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it,” Ralphie Wendt said,
shaking his head in disbelief. “Mary Ellen Reid and Joshua Kane. It can’t be happening.”

“Man,” Johnny said. “I don’t know what kind of magic you got, Josh, but hand a little around to the rest of us guys, eh?”

“Mary Ellen Reid asked
you
to take her to the dance?” my father asked at the supper table. “Wow.”

“I didn’t even think she knew I existed,” I said through a mouthful of potatoes.

“Well, the Reids are a good family,” my mother said. “Mark Reid is a good upstanding church member and Ellen Reid has been a pillar of the community as long as I can remember. I think it’s a good thing.”

“She’s cute, eh, son?” my father said and winked.

“Yeah. Really,” I said and grinned.

“Betcha the guys are all pretty jealous, eh? What’s Johnny think?” he asked.

“Everyone’s as surprised as I am and Johnny, well, he can’t figure it out at all.”

“What’s to figure?” he asked.

It seemed the perfect time to let them in on the way the school year had been going. To let them know the hurt I’d experienced and the confusion that had settled in my brain about Indians and family and color and hate. But I didn’t. I believed that the passing of the ordeal meant that it could all remain my secret. That it was better that way.

“Ah, you know,” I said quickly, “I’m a farm kid, she’s a townie. Not much in common.”

“Well, you never know. Obviously she’s seen something she likes in you, Joshua. You’re a fine boy. She’s lucky to have you as a classmate.” My mother patted my hand.

“So you’ll get all gussied up and dance up a storm, I suppose?” my father asked, stretching his legs out from under his chair, clasping his hands behind his head.

“Dance? Geez. I don’t know how to dance!” I stammered.

They laughed.

“Well, young sir,” my mother said, rising from her chair and taking me by the hand. “There’s no time like now to start learning!”

She walked me into the living room. Then, as my father floundered through the records for one we could dance to, she showed me how to hold her, the placement of the hands, their proper weight, and the gentleman’s distance. When a bouncy country waltz began to fill the room, she led me through my first faltering steps. We moved awkwardly around the room, until gradually I began to follow her lead and the one-two-three, one-two-three rhythm settled into my brain and feet and we were dancing. As my father clapped time, whistling encouragement, the sun settled into the lap of the west, while my mother and I danced and danced and danced. She looked into my eyes and smiled, nodding. As the strains of that music died away, and she stepped slowly away from me and curtsied, I was filled again with the love of family, God and life. I couldn’t wait for Friday.

G
od within. My father explained to me once that our word
enthusiasm
comes from the Greek word
theos
, or God. En-theos meant God within, and the
ism
meant it was something that was acted on, displayed or lived. So, enthusiasm was living like you carried God within yourself, each day becoming a source of light, a celebration, a cause for great joy. It made perfect sense to me. The dawning of our days is the dawning of life, and to greet those days with joy, verve and aplomb is the stuff of life itself.

Despite what I faced that first week of high school, I still awoke with the unshakable belief that the God within me would lead me to resolution. That’s another tricky word.
Resolve.
It’s another faith word, really. If you believe and trust, then you believe and trust that God has already
solved
your problem, that He has a solution mapped out for you. Your responsibility then becomes to walk the
path you’re directed to walk and to use the tools of your faith to simply
re-solve
the problem. It was another seed of faith that my parents had planted in me, one I couldn’t define at fourteen but that lived within me nonetheless.

The week leading up to the Welcoming Dance passed in a blur. I awoke each day full of excitement and enthusiasm. The talk in the hallways and on the buses was of nothing else. I relished the idea of appearing as an equal before the school body, the catcalls and whispers drowned in murmurs of appreciation, welcome and regard. This, of course, was hinged to the thoughts of waltzing Mary Ellen Reid through the evening, thoughts that were strangely enticing, affecting my body and senses with a warmth I’d never experienced. In my mind’s eye I saw us, together beneath a swirl of party lights, moving delicately over each note like stepping stones, the rhythm buoyant and the eyes of our classmates glistening in the aura of our connection as they encircled us, swept up in the magic of romance, music and our untethered youthfulness.

I fumbled my way through the Friday-evening meal wordless and clumsy, merely grinning foolishly at my parents who tittered merrily at my nervousness.

Upstairs I scrubbed and lathered almost to the point of pain. I combed and recombed my hair, settled on a dab of Brylcreem and clipped my nails, and as I crossed the hallway to my room to begin dressing, I stopped before the mirror at the head of the stairs to check myself. I saw a slim, muscled young man with clear eyes, healthy skin and close-cropped hair. I saw Joshua Kane.

As I traced the line of my cheekbones with my fingertips and trailed them slowly over the ridge of my chin, down my throat to my chest and abdomen, I saw myself clearly as the spawn of my parents. But this was not my father’s chin. These were not my mother’s eyes. This angular scarp of cheekbone and broadened nose had not come from the joining of their chromosomes nor had the black pitch of my hair resulted from the critical mix of my father’s brown hair and my mother’s red. No, I was a singular creation in their midst, and if I was not their biological son, the young
man staring back at me from the mirror had been incubated, formed, fed, nurtured and grown from the spontaneous mechanics of love that moved and directed them. A love germinated, tended and tilled in the arable soil of Creation. I was their son. Love had made me that. I was Joshua Kane. They had created me, that much I would never deny. The Indian in the mirror existed somewhere beneath all that, an unknown, present only in skin.

I dressed quickly. I’d worked arduously the night before, putting an impeccable gloss on my shoes, and I’d learned how to press a shirt and pants by the time I was twelve. My standard fashion statement was white shirt, black pants and shoes. A paisley tie was all the worldliness I allowed myself. As I walked into the kitchen where my parents waited, I felt dapper, a dandy on the loose.

They stood there in the doorway smiling at me. At first I thought there was something wrong with the way I looked and gave myself a hasty once-over. My mother kissed me on the cheek and handed me a beautiful white and pink corsage in a clear plastic container.

“For the lady,” she said.

“And this,” my father said and brought a bundle out from behind his back, “is for the gentleman. Try it on.”

It was a black tuxedo jacket. It fit perfectly. I ran to the downstairs bathroom to look in the mirror and they followed close behind me. It was the first dress jacket I’d ever worn. It felt secure, comfortable and familiar. I loved it.

“It used to be your grandfather’s,” my mother explained. “When he was younger. I dug it out of the attic and took it in while you were at school. It fits you well.”

“We wanted this night to be one you’d remember forever, Joshua. A boy’s first date is a mighty big event and we wanted to help make it special. You look terrific, son,” my father said.

“Your grandfather would have been proud of you,” my mother said.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you.” The jacket felt like my grandfather’s arms around my shoulders.

I clutched the corsage and fingered the fabric of my jacket all the way into town. No one spoke much, my parents allowing me the privacy of my thoughts and feelings, and me, uncertain of what to say or whether anything that came out would even make any sense. My nervousness had been replaced by a quiet happiness. I settled into the seat of the car, watching the fields turning slowly into smaller acreages, backyards and billboards before we finally spun past the Welcome to Walkerton sign.

When we pulled up in front of the Reids’ house, I was shocked. It was a three-story red-brick palace with a wide verandah supported by thick white columns. The windows were huge and bordered with curlicues of stained glass. The front door was extra-wide, appearing to be one large piece of burnished oak with discreet brass fittings. The lights blazing within showed high ceilings and natural woodwork. As we got out of the car my dad gave a long whistle and my mother rearranged her hat. My nervousness returned in a rush.

Mark Reid answered the door. He was a large man bristling with the energy that comes from a lifetime spent making important decisions for other people. He boomed out a greeting and swept us into the living room, where Mrs. Reid and Mary Ellen waited on the sofa. They rose as we entered. Mrs. Reid was a wealthier version of my mother with her restrained suit of clothes and clasped hands. Mary Ellen absolutely shimmered in a long-sleeved yellow gown. Her hair was swept up from her face while the slight touch of makeup she’d applied only enhanced the soft glow of her skin. As our parents exchanged pleasantries we stared wordlessly at each other.

“And who knows, maybe it’s time we sent a local to Ottawa. Lord knows, the farmers could use a neighbor on the Hill, couldn’t they?” Mr. Reid was saying as I surfaced from my reverie.

“Yes, that’s true,” my father said shyly, never comfortable with political discussions.

“Well, let me tell you,” Mrs. Reid said abruptly, “we were never so happy to hear that our Mary Ellen would be escorted by a boy
from a solid churchgoing family like yourselves. These Walkerton youths are so callow and disrespectful.”

“Thank you,” my mother answered. “We’re pleased, too.”

I presented the corsage to Mary Ellen, who accepted it as graciously as someone used to ceremony. She smiled as I fumbled, trying to pin it to her gown, until my mother came to my rescue. We all laughed, and as I looked into Mary Ellen’s eyes I felt something small and birdlike move around somewhere in the vicinity of my heart. Finally, pleasantries finished, we were in the car and on our way.

Mary Ellen and my parents chatted animatedly about school and her plans for university. She kept one hand perched delicately on my leg all the way and the slight pressure felt heavy with intimations beyond my understanding. Now and then we’d glance at each other and she would crinkle the edges of her eyes, squeezing my leg lightly. I felt dizzy with excitement.

When we pulled up to the school I was glad to see Johnny prowling back and forth at the top of the steps. He was wearing a brown houndstooth jacket that was at least two sizes too big, a blue shirt with a skinny black tie, blue jeans and sneakers. As we said good-bye to my parents I felt a pang of regret, that unsettling kind you feel entering new territory for the first time.

“Man, I thought you’d never get here,” Johnny said. “You guys look like page eighty-eight.”